


conformity

by clockworkeyes



Category: Neighbourly (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Horror, House Fic (Neighbourly), Little Street (Neighbourly), Psychological Horror, Suburban, mundane horror, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28988880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkeyes/pseuds/clockworkeyes
Summary: Oliver Moore wakes up in a house that is not his own.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	conformity

**Author's Note:**

> Neighbourly came out today! The episode went so hard I just had to jump in and make something, and this spawned out of that! If nothing else I can claim I had the first Neighbourly fanfiction by technicality. 
> 
> Content Warnings:   
> Unreality  
> Gaslighting

Oliver Moore wakes up in a house that is not his own. This, he knows. His house is not like this one, surely. This house is large, and impersonal, cold and polished and meticulous, and it is not his. He says nothing, makes no fuss, walks down alien stairs into an unfamiliar kitchen and navigates a coffee machine he does not remember owning. He does not remember liking coffee, but this machine is in the house that is not his own, so he must drink it, he reasons to himself. 

He is greeted by a woman that is not his wife. This, he knows. His wife does not look like this, surely. This woman is short, and full of sharp angles, and if he tries to look at her face his head begins to hurt, and she is not his wife. He says nothing, makes no fuss, and kisses her quickly on an imperceptible cheek before taking a sip of the coffee he is supposed to like. He does not remember marrying this woman, but she has a ring on her finger in the house that is not his own, so he must love her, he reasons to himself. 

He dresses himself with unfamiliar clothes and leaves for a street that is not his. This, he knows. He stares at a row of houses identical to the one that is not his and wonders how anyone could live here, in this ‘Little Street’ that stretches infinitely. He wonders how he can live here, in the house that is not his with the woman that is not his wife, wonders why nothing is as it should be, wonders why the people he does not recognise pass him by with little more than a glance and a smile and an occasional “Morning, Oliver.” He wants to question, wants to ask someone how long he hasn’t lived here and when he didn’t marry his wife and why this lack of familiarity is so familiar to him. Instead he says nothing, makes no fuss, returns their greetings and shallow smiles, does not look closely about misshapen lumps under clothing and teeth too sharp behind closed lips and odd stains on hands. He does not remember these people, but they look at him and say his name, so they must be acquainted, he reasons to himself. 

He finds himself in an office that is not his. This, he knows. His name is on the door, and his photo is on the desk, and it is not his. There is no work for him to do, and so he sits silently in his chair and faces the wall, and then he leaves. The people who are not his co-workers smile at him, wish him a safe journey, claim they will see him tomorrow. Can they not see what is wrong, he wants to scream? Don’t they understand that everything is broken? Why do none of them know? He says nothing, makes no fuss, and goes on with the life that is not his. He does not remember what his job is, but he is good at it, so it must be what he is meant to be doing, he reasons to himself.

Tonight, Oliver Moore will return to the home that is not his. He will kiss the woman that is not his wife, and enquire about her day, and nod as she says the same words she says every day, and he will not notice when her features swim and shift and change when he attempts to look into her eyes, because he has taught himself not to. He will retire at a reasonable hour into a bed that is not his, and stare at a ceiling that is not his, and he will allow himself precisely one scream of confusion and frustration and abject terror, and the scream that will emerge will not be his own.

Tomorrow, he will wake up in a house and a neighbourhood and a body and a life that is not his own. 

He will say nothing, and he will make no fuss.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Neighbourly and was not involved in the creative process of writing or creating it. 
> 
> Listen to Neighbourly on Spotify here: https://open.spotify.com/show/0L9qeCcUtKqckcpPaQp3Jr
> 
> or available wherever you get your podcasts! Give it a listen, it's well worth your while.


End file.
